The Witcher: Deadman's Land
by jarr0624
Summary: A witcher named Varen from the School of the Crows is shunned by his peers for his sadistic ways. Looking for redemption after unknowingly slaying his youngest sister, Varen is contracted to stop a mage using necromancy to build an army of undead and must do so before an entire village becomes the first of its ranks.


_I've heard humans be compared to that of an uncurable disease; a plague in a world already filled with the most vile forms of monsters imaginable. Yet with their presence and their actions, deeds and misdeeds, one can't help but have some hope in people._

 _The evil deeds of many seem to balance with the actions of those with good nature. Something I've noticed even with monsters. It strips away the black and white of it all, replacing it with grey areas that leave behind more questions than answers._

 _But not everyone sees it that way, especially those with power in the palm of their hands - big or small. Some don't care about the good deeds of men or their capacity to do good._

 _Some would rather watch them all burn._

"How many?"

The voice was deep, gritted and bitter in tone, belonging to an elder man, bald at the scalp while the remaining hair gray at brittle at the sides, robed in what could be described as a poor man's attempt in plush clothing. Various animal skins were stitched together, old and new, buttoned at the neck and draped over his shoulder. He stood in front of a fire place.

"Six this time," spoke another. He was much younger, armed with light leather padding, offering minimal protection, a bow at hand with a quiver at his back. He was filthy and glistening, bruises sported just above his eye and one near his bearded chin. His black hair pulled back in a tail. "We're losing too many men. The villagers have lost all hope; most are already in the process of moving elsewhere."

"Let them leave," spoke the elder. The young marksman was taken aback, surprised at such words.

"But… my lord… they won't survive the trip without the required forces, and we can't spare the little men we have if we are to continue protecting the village."

"That is why we're letting them go. Once they realize we won't offer them safeguard, they'll stay within the confinements of their homes."

"You're to keep them prisoners? In their own homes?"

The elder looked over his shoulder, slowly turning to face the hunter, who felt the immediate shudder at his back.

"Of course not." The hunter quietly let the air out caught at his throat, regaining composure. "If they wish to leave, then can do so on their own accord," the elder continued. "However, they will be reminded that they alone shall protect what is theirs and they alone will attempt to survive what lurks in these woods."

"Even if they stay, we can't protect them. This… thing, this beast that's bringing back the dead – _our_ dead, has made it abundantly clear they won't stop until each and every one of us is dead. Until-"

"I'm well aware of what this beast wants."

"Then we should stop pretending we have the resource to stop it."

"And what do you propose, soldier?"

A pause followed. Both men stared upon one another as their options thinned. Without the resource or manpower, without the knowledge of what it was that was haunting them or how to stop it, they only had one choice, and it was one that the village's lord commander had hoped to avoid.

They needed a professional.

The Seven Cats inn in Redania was a reputable establishment, riddled with the lowest of whoresons, drunks, and bandits alike. While the key point of the inn was for them to unwind from their criminal activities – especially with the likes of Novigrad soldiers standing as guards at the gate – it was still rowdy in its own right, attracting the stink musk of testosterone and ego-centric brutes.

The innkeep, pleasant as she was, was usually capable of handling the muggers before they could potentially destroy her livelihood. However, she would never turn away the opportunity to have someone at her side in case things become too much for her to handle. In this case, it was the man that sat alone at the far corner of the inn.

The stranger was armored with a partially worn out brown leather tunic, sleeveless, with gauntlets and leather pants to match. The pants sported multiple straps buckled tightly around the thighs, boots with portions of plates guarding the shins. At his back, held by the harness thrown over his shoulder, were two long swords, both sheathes identical in a dark shade of blue with black leather décor in forms of a cross. The hilts, wound with simple black leather, had the caps of a crow's head. From his back, all one could see were the muscular arms and his long, black hair cascading down his back.

"Stranger." The innkeep approached him with a plate in her hand. Setting it in front of him, a well roasted mutton leg with potatoes on the side steamed its flavors enough for his nostrils to flare. He positioned himself forward, elbows at the edge of the table. "On the house, yeah? For the work you did."

"Thank you."

The gratitude of the innkeeper didn't go unnoticed. One drunk in a group overheard the exchange while gulping down his ale as he leaned at the bar. When he innkeeper approached, he wasn't shy to question her in regards to the free meal given.

"Hey!" he hollered. The innkeeper turned to him. "Why does he get to dine for free while the rest of us gotta put down coin left and right for the shitty grub you call food?"

The innkeeper stood behind the bar, hands at the edge as she leaned forward to the drunk. She took one look over to the stranger, with his mutton gripped in a fist as he brought it to his mouth and chewed off a good chunk of it, seemingly ignoring the conversation behind him.

"That stranger be a witcher, Don," whispered the innkeeper. "He took the contract that got rid of those things that kept attacking the men delivering all my goods."

"A witcher?!" The drunk set his mug down. "Don't make him better than any of us. His line of work is just that, and the rest of us put in equal time in our professions, yet we don't get the same treatments."

"You're a fucking thief, Don," said the innkeeper. "There's nothing honest in that."

The drunk glared at the innkeeper. "What fucking difference does it make? If it ain't me, it's someone else."

The drunk pushed himself from the bar, walking over towards the stranger.

"Hey! Witcher!"

The stranger kept quiet, still in the midst of enjoying his meal.

"I'm talking to you, freak," the drunk continued. "Too good to mingle with humans? That it?"

The drunk looked over his shoulders to his companions sitting at the bar, and then turned his attention back to the stranger. There was an obvious lack of interest in the drunk. His own profession and dealings around these lands has made it painfully obvious that it wasn't worth the trouble. There was always one, however, that just had to prove a point. This was no different.

The drunk approached the stranger, standing at the left of him as he lowered to try and catch the stranger's gaze. "Hear you witchers have good hearing, but I guess that don't apply to you, does it?"

Suddenly, the stranger's plate was shoved off the table by the drunk by a swift motion of his hand. The stranger tensed a bit, still chewing on the last bit of meat from the mutton that was now on the dirt ridden floors. The drunk laughed heartily as his mates joined along.

"Wasn't done with that…" The stranger finally spoke.

"Oh yes you are," the drunk responded. "If you wanna eat in peace, you pay like the rest of us. Ain't nothing free 'round these parts."

Again, there was silence, and the drunk was quickly losing his patience. The stranger then slowly lifted his gaze to meet the thug that had stolen him the luxury of a good meal.

"Those cat eyes don't scare me, freak."

The stranger kept his gazed locked to him.

"The fuck you lookin' at? Gonna do something?"

It wasn't long before the guards outside the inn heard a loud commotion within the inn. Two of them raced toward the doors, but before they could go inside, the stranger stepped out, seemingly unharmed. When they looked inside, the thug had been beaten to a bloody pulp, left with his arm dangling over the very table which the stranger sat upon. The guards then looked towards the stranger, walking over to the stables to collect his horse.

They could have chosen to stop and arrest him, but the looks on their faces solidified their choice. They likely knew the drunk had it coming either way.

"For someone of such repute, I didn't think you'd still beat on lowly bar patrons."

The stranger stopped in his tracks, gallingly throwing his head back as he turned towards where the voice came. He features finally shown, he looked rather young, albeit a bit battle worn, likely from his long years of his profession. He sported the unusual cat-like eyes, though a unique shade of green rather than the common yellow. He had a straight nose, a bit wide for his face, a strong angled jawline and full lips. His skin was lightly tanned, though paler than common folk, and his cheeks were stubble, sporting a small vertical scar just below his left eye.

"Ovar?" The stranger approached the familiar face, a fellow witcher. He was much older, a tad overweight and bald with a thick and bushy white beard.

"It's good to see you, Varen," said the elder witcher, both men taking each other's forearms in a hearty shake.

"Good to see you're still alive. Figured that archgriffin would've been the end of you. Last I heard, you didn't take any more contracts after that."

"Don't let my old age fool you, son. Three centuries under my belt hasn't slowed me down one bit."

"Hopefully I can say the same once I reach that cornerstone."

"You're almost there. If you get there."

"Don't remind me." Varen took a step back, arms crossed as his head slightly tilted. "How'd you find me?"

"It wasn't difficult. I figured with Geralt taking care of larger business, what with the Wild Hunt and all, someone else would have to take the smaller jobs to keep these people from thinking we no longer cared."

"Part of me still doesn't."

"Ah, but a good sack of coin is too tempting to refuse, isn't it?"

"Point taken."

"Either way, I got a whiff of a few people back in Novigrad mentioning that a witcher from the School of the Crow was around these parts taking any and all contracts thrown his way. Then… well, I just followed your tracks."

Varen turned to his horse, shaking his head. "Gonna have to be more subtle next time."

Ovar kept quiet for the moment, watching Varen as he jumped on the horse's saddle. "Listen…"

The old witcher approached by the horse's side. "I know you'd rather keep a low profile, especially after… well, I don't blame you one bit. But sometimes it's best to go a step higher than what you've taken comfort in."

"You already know I'd rather not glorify myself. The White Wolf can take all credit he wants in that regard, I don't need nor want that kind of attention."

"But what if the Crow can, at the very least, restore some of his glory? Tone down that infamous rumor of his heartless crusades."

Varen raised a brow. "And how do you suggest I do that?"

"I've a contract for you."

Varen scoffed, chuckling under his breath. "What's so different about one contract from the rest?"

"Depends on how you see it. Tell me, Varen. In your 250 plus years, have you ever taken the head of a necromancer as a trophy?"

"A necromancer?" Varen then hopped off his horse, standing before Ovar. "I doubt there's anything special about a mage bringing back the dead just to figure how they died."

"This mage isn't bringing them back for this purpose."

"Oh? Then what for?"

"To build an army."


End file.
